


nervous in the light of dawn

by sevenstarisle



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU, Artist!Keith, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, also i hc keith being from texas, idk this is just real gay y'all, sry not sry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 11:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenstarisle/pseuds/sevenstarisle
Summary: shiro retires, and keith goes with him.





	nervous in the light of dawn

**Author's Note:**

> this was written before a bunch of S7 revelations, and i'm also not the best at remembering every component of canon, so some details might be missing or off. this is basically me indulging in my love for domestic AUs, and it also has a teeny tiny bit of influence from [buffshiro](http://twitter.com/buffshiro)'s yeehaw AU over on twitter (as far as keith and shiro living on a farm goes).
> 
> big thanks to [wendee](http://twitter.com/GHOST_BOl), [sarah](http://nebulasan.tumblr.com), and [ashely](http://twitter.com/goosegloriosa) for their feedback and support! y'all are the best.

 

**_Present day,_ _5:54 am_**

Something old and catchy filled the small, dark space of the garage as Keith fiddled with his bike wheel, clutched in bare, scratched hands. His fingers smelled like metal and gently worn rubber as he twisted the spoke key until the tension felt just—right—one more turn—yeah, that was fine. Good as it would get.

“ _I wandered_ _—_ _on a cliff_ _—t_ _he brilliance of an angel_ _—_ ” the radio cut in and out, but Keith wasn’t interested in messing with the dial anymore. The bike wheel was done, at any rate, and he needed to get up from the concrete floor already.

He uncrossed stiff legs and stood slowly to stretch, hips and joints straining. His drooping eyes wandered around the garage. Several unpacked boxes sat stacked in a corner. Keith’s space was on the opposite side, illuminated by a solitary wall lamp. Tools and art supplies littered his workbench. He would clear and organize it at some point, eventually, one of these days. His easel was propped against some boxes and on it sat a half-finished painting of a tree, gnarled and dark at the moment, soon to be illuminated by sunlight once Keith could find the rest of his paint tubes.

On the wall above the bench hung his mother’s attempt at a small tapestry; a dark square of linen wool bearing the Marmora emblem, shining brightly blue. Krolia had made it out of boredom and it was quietly cherished by Keith, who had done his best to maintain a casual tone when he asked to have it. Next to this was a framed photo of Krolia, half obscured by the shining fur of their cosmic wolf, Mithra; by this, a picture of the old crew, signed by everyone. Lance’s wide scrawl had taken up the most room.

Above all this was a simple, cheap clock, which struck 6:00 a.m.

Keith’s hand drifted behind his neck, a dull ache forming. He blinked slowly, torn between biking to the shop for pastries or finally making his way to bed. He knew Shiro would awaken without opening his eyes, groggily muttering what he always did: _“Keep this up, you’ll start to look like an overgrown raccoon.”_

His stomach rumbled, giving him a final answer. Keith set to reassembling his bike and opened the garage door afterwards, the cool air of spring morning breathing new life into the darkened crevices of concrete and old brick. He surveyed the land before him, live oaks and dirt paths and sweet-smelling grass all around. Hills in the distance were still dark, but getting lighter.

He thought of Shiro, likely still wrapped up in sheets and blankets, breathing slow and even. The neighboring farm’s rooster would be crowing soon, rousing him, chest bare and limbs vaguely aching. Sometimes, Keith was there to kiss him awake, persuading him to get a little frisky before leaving on the days he had work.

Sometimes, Shiro woke in a sweat, and Keith would just hold him, wordless, often in the dark. Those days were a little harder; Shiro would stick to housework, or sit on the porch, reading, while Keith brewed sweet tea with the radio in the background. Those days, he wished he could steal away all of Shiro’s phantoms, whatever was still lingering in the corners, and banish them to the nearest black hole.

He knew better. He knew he couldn’t.

Keith, suddenly very aware of his own pulse, inhaled so deeply that his lungs hurt. By his feet, he heard a soft meow _—_ he looked down to see Missy, their adopted tuxedo, weaving between Keith’s ankles and peering at him expectedly. She pawed at his faded jeans, her tail swishing slowly.

The way her eyes peered up at him, almost glowing, somehow reminded him of the wolf; the way she gazed at Keith, almost contemplatively, as Keith had worked to persuade his mother to take Mithra along with her and the other paladins.

_Mithra is more yours than mine._

_No. She’s the family wolf. And I think you need her more than me._

It pained him to let such an ethereal creature go, but he knew she wouldn’t fare as well on Earth as she did now, traveling and teleporting freely between galaxies. _Besides,_ Keith had said, _now the both of you can visit us. Anytime._

When Krolia smiled at that, it had filled Keith’s heart with some heavy, calm feeling; a comfortable weight. He thought of something far away—a hazy recollection of being wrapped in blankets. It seemed an impossible memory, but Keith knew he could feel it if he thought hard enough.

When he’d looked back to Krolia, he saw her regarding Mithra with a vague tenderness, almost humming to herself while stroking wild, dark and glowing fur. Mithra had squeezed her eyes shut in content.

_I suppose it is true_ , Krolia finally conceded. _After all, she’s something to remember you by._

“All right,” Keith sighed now, returning to the present, reaching down to scritch Missy’s chin. “All right.”

 

* * *

**_Two years ago,_ _mid-April_**

There had been no farewell party. No balloons, not one of Hunk’s fluffy cakes frosted with best wishes, Coran’s over-the-top decorations, or one of Lance’s crude stick figures; nary a banner in sight. It had been a mere utterance of _I think I need to rest_ , and Keith had been the first to know.

His mind had jumped—shamefully, in retrospect—to knee-jerk responses: _You can’t, but the team, but Voltron, but the Galra, Haggar_ —

“I think so too.”

Shiro had looked up from his knees, damp white hair sticking to his face from his earlier shower. They sat outside by a dead campfire, sharing a canteen, too tired for lengthy conversation. The others slumbered peacefully inside tents, traded at an outpost for spare ship parts that Pidge had been hoarding for “science reasons.”

“What’ll you do?” Keith asked.

Shrug. Blink. Sigh. “Go somewhere quiet,” Shiro finally said, nearly whispering. “Not yet, though. We have a lot of work to do.”

Keith nodded, but something wasn’t sitting right inside of him—to say Shiro had been through hell and back felt incredibly underwhelming. There were no words, to his knowledge, that held the weariness and weight that Shiro wore on his exhausted face, scar shimmering whenever it caught the faint light of stars overhead. Keith watched him and unconsciously reached up and pressed his hand to his jawline, index finger tracing his own mark.

Shiro peered from under his hair and saw what Keith was doing, his eyes widening. He swallowed, suddenly going rigid, and Keith nearly stumbled over himself as Shiro stood and made to leave.

“No, don’t—where are you going?”

“I just—” Shiro stopped, breath going raspy. His voice sounded rough and Keith felt the tiniest bolt of _something_ in his gut, sticking to his insides, and he found that he wanted to say many things at once but could not bring himself to even breathe normally in Shiro’s direction.

“I can’t,” Shiro nearly spat. “I’m sorry. I can’t stand that I—”

“But it wasn’t you,” Keith firmly interrupted. He gathered himself and squared his shoulders, trying to wordlessly assert everything he felt, hoping like hell that Shiro would understand. “Or, it was you, but it wasn’t the you that’s _real_.”

“I was dead, Keith,” Shiro murmured, shielding his eyes with his left hand. Keith watched the empty space on Shiro’s right, beneath the thin blanket wrapped around the paladin’s shoulders, where an arm used to be. His shoulders seemed to wilt under some invisible pressure, and seeing this filled Keith with a new kind of energy, made of grit and amperage, and he was bursting to tell Shiro, _you are not a villain, you are not a burden, you are good and new and important, and everything to me_ —

“You weren’t.”

“Keith—”

“You _weren’t_.” His nerves were trembling. Shiro’s hand lowered, gaze cutting through the dark and finally settling somewhere left of Keith’s scar. “You were alive in—in all of us—in Black—”

“ _Keith_ —”

“In me.

 

* * *

**_Present day,_ _6:23 am_**

The raspberry scones were still cooling, but the chocolate croissants and pumpkin bread were fresh and filled the shop with a warmth and sweetness that made the place feel like a second home. Keith bought one of each along with his blueberry muffin, and the shopkeeper placed two free scones in his bag with a wink. Keith couldn’t help but smile, small and quiet

The faint heaviness of sleep began to settle in his bones as he pedaled down the mostly empty street. The sky was in the midst of lightening, stars almost fully faded in the brightening blue of day. A few clouds were scattered across, wispy at the ends, their bodies sloping and curving and tinted peach. Keith watched them as he rode home, daring to imagine for just a moment that they were traveling with him, keeping him safe. Soon, pavement gave way to dirt, tiny pebbles littering the path.

He’d forgotten his earbuds, so Keith sang somewhat off-key to himself, trees and fields whooshing past. The smell of dew and grass replaced the memory of pumpkin and spice. He felt the wind grace his neck, whirl around his arms and legs, and he wished Shiro was here to ride with him and feel all of this, too.

_Don't act like you can’t sing_ , Shiro had told him once, laughing as Keith successfully and purposefully butchered “Little Bitty” while they made dinner. He’d worn bits of alfredo sauce on his thrifted t-shirt and the windows had been wide open, letting in small fluttering moths with wrinkled, plain wings, looking for shelter from the drizzle outside. Missy had been batting at them lazily before losing interest and napping on Shiro’s shoes.

Keith remembered them, and the way Shiro’s mouth went crooked when he laughed. It’d only been two months ago, but it felt like a lifetime away.

As the house drew closer, Keith found himself struggling to stay awake. He slowed to a stop and got off the bike, making himself walk the rest of the way. Tiny dirt clouds followed his footsteps, scuffed boots leaving faint prints. His arms were bare and the sun was just beginning to kiss them lightly.

“Shiro?” he called as he walked inside, gently closing the door behind him. Keith heard no response—not uncommon, but a sliver of worry creeped into his stomach all the same. He wrapped the plastic bag handles around his scratched hand and took careful steps down the narrow hall, wooden walls mostly bare, save for random posters and unnamed paintings; some by Keith, others bought, cheap and aesthetically pleasing.

He passed the Klimt copy that Shiro had demanded they stop for when passing a yard sale—not _The Kiss_ , but _Judith II_ , because Shiro had always admired the sharpness of it—and heard a faint sound that he couldn’t immediately discern. Something like a sigh, or a cracked, low sob, faint but distinct.

Keith paused before the bedroom door, hand slowly reaching for the knob.

 

* * *

  ** _One year ago,_ _beginning of June_**

 “Are you okay?”

It seemed a simple enough question, and certainly wasn’t meant to draw the ire of anyone—yet, upon hearing it, Shiro’s face became stony and full of sudden contempt. Keith remembered taking a step back, suddenly cautious; not quite afraid, but heart thumping loudly.

Really, they should have been happy, Shiro most of all—Haggar had been killed, and the Galra were forced into an unfortunate disposition of having no clear leader and, currently, no way to fight Voltron, the latter having found a way to subdue every opposition possible. It was a clear victory, albeit not a clean one—Allura and Lance were injured, but healing well. Keith suspected that it helped for them to be in each other’s presence.

Yet, when it came to Shiro, a pervading sense of unease was all Keith felt.

“Shiro?”

“It wasn’t enough.”

Keith paused, hovering by the door. Shiro was sitting up in bed, studying his arms quietly. His new prosthetic wasn’t quite Galra-grade, but it was still well-functioning and sharp as ever; Shiro had even said it felt lighter, upon receiving it. Yet now, when he peered down at it, he seemed to fixate upon the gleaming carbon fiber with a brewing frustration.

“What do you—”

“It wasn’t enough for her to die,” Shiro interrupted. His voice was low, every syllable even. Keith knew, logically, that Shiro’s anger was not directed at him, but he couldn’t stop the rising anxiety in his chest. “It wasn’t enough for her to just—just be felled, just like that.”

The anxiety began to subside, but Keith was still uneasy. He took one step forward, slowly, ready for Shiro to tell him to stop. When he didn’t, Keith made his steps more deliberate, still taking his time, until he reached the edge of Shiro’s unmade bed and sat down, smoothing a corner of the dark blankets. The room was dark, the bed was dark, Shiro’s gaze, his arm—all of it. Keith wanted nothing more than to throw some curtains open and put a vase of sunflowers next to Shiro’s bedside, just so he would have some color in his life.

_He deserves the rainbow_ , Keith thought.

“You did the right thing,” he said now, reflexively reaching out to Shiro, stopping just shy of his fingers. Almost immediately, the older man drew back, covering his face with both hands.

“You don’t get it, Keith,” Shiro said, voice shaking. “I wanted—I wanted—”

_she should have suffered she should have hurt like i hurt i wanted her to feel pain pain pain misery_ —

“I wanted revenge, Keith.”

He didn’t need to say much more; the finality of his words were enough. Keith felt his chest grow heavy with it, a sudden and lingering pain that went beyond sadness; beyond anger. It was a strange sort of grief, as though her death hadn’t meant much at all.

Keith couldn’t stop himself this time—he reached out, gently, and placed a hand on Shiro’s face. He stroked his cheekbone with his thumb, slowly, back and forth, and Shiro finally met his eyes.

“We all did,” Keith murmured. “You’re stronger for this. It doesn’t feel like it, but we’re all—we’re all proud of you.” Keith swallowed. “ _I’m_ proud of you.”

Shiro blinked slowly, eyes wet, but no tears fell. Instead, he drew in a ragged breath. “There’s something I need to ask you,” he said, quickly, as though time were running short. “Did you mean what you told me?”

Keith furrowed his brow. “What do you—?”

“When we—when I—” Shiro paused, then lifted one shaking hand to touch Keith’s scar. Instinctively, Keith froze, but he remembered it was Shiro, the _real_ Shiro—it was okay

He nodded. “I love you, Shiro,” he started. Then he stopped, forcing himself to steel his nerves. He’d been milling over this for weeks, months—all through awkward glances, short touches, side hugs, stilted conversations. He’d looked at Shiro time and time again as a leader, as a hero, as just a man, as a man he loved—as someone he knew he’d love forever, but also felt something else tugging within him, like it wasn’t enough to say ‘brother.’ Like he was a brother, a best friend, but something else that escaped Keith entirely if he thought too hard about it.

_What’s wrong with you?_ Lance had asked him once, as Keith was staring into space for the umpteenth time, sitting on the paw of his lion while they made camp on another distant planet.

_I’m fine_ , Keith had answered, full of shit.

_Don’t look fine._ Lance had replied loftily, almost smirking. _Looks like you’re thinking too hard._

_So what if I am?_

Lance had shrugged. _I’m just saying,_ he’d said, before leaving to join the others in a game of Uno as dusk set in, two moons above and a third in the distance, full and deep blue. _The answer might be simpler than you think, whatever it is._

_Whatever it is._

 

* * *

**_Present day,_ _7:17 am_**

“Are you okay?”

When he said it now, he said it softly, holding the bag of pastries in one hand and keeping the other hand tentatively on the doorknob. He watched as Shiro rolled over in bed, blankets drawn up to his nose. His hair was getting a bit long, shining white as ever in the glow of the sun filtering through the curtains.

Keith walked over to the bed, toeing off his boots and setting the plastic bag on the messy nightstand. A teal-painted hand-carved lamp stood beside a painted ashtray, its bowl decorated with bluebonnets along the border, a longhorn in the center. He used it as a general junk dispensary; keys, loose change, crumpled receipts, and small shiny rocks made up its contents. A half-finished glass of water sat atop an old shopping list, stained and smudged. Keith looked at the pile of laundry in the closet that needed doing, eyes traveling to the secondhand dresser where a television and two candles sat, folded pajama pants visible from a half-open drawer.

He turned his attention to Shiro, who was awake but quite still. Keith slid down and lay close to him, clasping his hand.

“Another dream?”

Shiro nodded. Keith kissed his knuckles; Shiro grimaced.

“Not that hand,” Shiro said, “you’re basically kissing plastic.”

“A hand’s a hand,” Keith dismissed. “C’mere.”

He lay on his back and beckoned Shiro closer. After a moment’s hesitation, Shiro shifted over and wrapped muscled arms around him, resting his head on Keith’s chest. He positioned himself so as not to settle all his bulk on the slighter man, their legs tangling. Shiro’s thighs were warm. Keith wrapped his arms around broad, scarred shoulders and exhaled softly.

“I got you pumpkin bread,” he said, stroking Shiro’s hair. “Got a couple scones on the house, too.”

Shiro hummed in approval. “That reminds me...we need to write Pidge,” he mumbled into Keith’s chest. “Ask for one of Hunk’s care packages.” He blinked, eyelashes catching in the light. Keith watched them in silent appreciation. “We need to clean the house today, too.”

Keith nodded. “Later,” he said. “Still early.”

“It’s almost seven-thirty.”

“You know I’m never alive before ten. Besides, Missy’s fed.”

Shiro looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Did you even sleep?”

Keith cracked a grin. “Fixed my bike,” he admitted. “It rides better now.”

“I don’t know how you expect to keep a farm,” Shiro yawned, humor in his voice, “or even how you made it through the Garrison.” Keith playfully slapped his shoulder, resulting in a burst of chuckling from Shiro.

“Between my bad sleep habits and my, uh, ‘attitude problem,’ I’m surprised they didn’t dump me sooner,” Keith admitted. “Anyway, I’m better off where I’m at right now.”

Shiro shifted upwards, pressing a kiss to Keith’s jaw and scar. “I’ll say.”

 

* * *

  ** _Six months ago, end_ _of January_**

“Let’s get a house,” Keith said suddenly.

Shiro looked up from the bathroom sink, utterly bemused. Toothpaste stained the corners of his mouth. “What?”

“Seriously,” Keith insisted, filled with excitement at the mere prospect. “There’s houses here, real cheap—or we could go to Big Spring, or Abilene—”

“I mean...with what money, Keith? I don’t earn much as it is. The apartment seems fine.”

Keith sighed. “It’s _tiny_ here, Shiro. Besides, I’ve got some saved up. I can sell some paintings, work some odd jobs here and there. We’ll pull it together and live somewhere peaceful, like you’ve always wanted.”

“But—”

Not too long after the Galra battle, and his formal retirement announcement, Shiro and Keith had settled in a cramped studio on Earth. Every other inch of space was filled with boxes and random junk; a cat tree was shoved in the corner by the door. Shiro tried to maintain some semblance of order in the place, often lamenting, _We could lead Voltron, but we can’t keep our own damn home together._

Hunk, almost seamlessly, had slid into Shiro’s place as leader, Lance acting as co-captain. Shiro was sometimes consulted, but for the most part, they tried to leave him alone. There was still a lingering question, however, on everyone’s mind—though they were all off traveling galaxies, exploring new life and territories, almost every paladin somehow found time to ask Keith several times a week: _When is Shiro_ actually _going to get some rest? That place seems too small. Isn’t it too small? Really, Keith? Texas? Are you guys okay?_

_I’m workin on it, guys_ , was his usual response, before shutting off his phone with an irritated sigh. The only person who had managed to butt out was Pidge, bless her heart—instead, she’d been spamming Keith with terrible jokes and dog videos.

“Just think about it,” Keith insisted now. “C’mon. It’s all we’ve been talking about, just getting out and going somewhere nice, somewhere a little bigger. We can go somewhere closer to the ranch. It’ll be just you and me, maybe even a little farm!”

Shiro swished, spat, wiped his mouth, and laughed. “A _farm_? Keith, c’mon.”

“C’mon old timer, you don’t want a pony? Some chickens?”

“I’m not that old, _Yorak_ ,” Shiro huffed, poking Keith in the side. “But I wouldn’t mind a horse, I guess.”

“I should hope so,” Keith laughed, rubbing where Shiro’s finger had jabbed him, feigning pain. “You work with them, anyway

Shiro considered him, searching Keith’s face for any sign of a joke, or a trick—but Keith felt as earnest as he looked. He was positively brimming with energy, waiting on edge for Shiro’s say-so.

He sighed, shaking his head. “I mean...alright. We can look around, I guess.”

Keith whooped and tackled Shiro none too gently, covering his face with kisses. Shiro laughed, cradling Keith’s hips and spinning him around. Keith held him close and remembered their first kiss, in Shiro’s bunk; then again, on a forest planet with multicolored stars and perfumed tree leaves; once more, under fresh sheets. Once they’d made things known to everyone else, Keith had received a text from Lance, one he still had.

_You figure out the answer? ;)_

Keith had laughed then, and he laughed now, just thinking of it, full of warmth and promise and tomorrow, all with Shiro—all he could have possibly wanted.

_Sure did, man. Sure did._

**Author's Note:**

> songs referenced:
> 
> title: [_nervous in the light of dawn_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_7246ASICA) by leigh nash  
>  song on the radio in the beginning: [_fly me courageous_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csvg8L5K9zE) by drivin' n' cryin'  
>  song that keith purposely butchers: [_little bitty_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSkeWs7kEio) by alan jackson (be warned that this is some real honky tonk country shit, i regret nothing, bye)


End file.
